Monthly Archives: August 2013

My relationship with running started when I was around five or six years old. Back then I LOVED running. I would run around for hours with my sister or neighborhood friends. I loved the feeling of extra air in my lungs and coming into the house with pink cheeks. Running was easy at that time, and it never felt like a chore.

Then, in the midst of my awkward puberty stage, running decided to humiliate me in the sixth grade. Gone were the days where running was carefree and exhilarating. Now, running was something that hooked into your ego and self-esteem.

PE in middle school is one of the most embarrassing and social numbing experiences out there. Not only is your body going in every which way, you don’t want to highlight that by not having any physical prowess. This is where the humiliation part kicked in. Once a month we had a “fitness day” where we were tested on everything from pull ups, to sit ups, squats, jumps and RUNNING.

I was a gymnast for many years, and was always fairly athletic, so I was not too intimidated by the first fitness test of the year. I was new to the school, didn’t have any friends yet, and thought I could fit into the sports crowd by wowing them with my physical athletic capabilities.

I was horribly mistaken, and it was running that let me down.

It was a colder day, slightly dreary and we were all cattled around the center of the football field. We were instructed that we all had to run the mile, and that we would be timed. Everyone had to participate in the endeavor and no one would be allowed to leave until EVERYONE WAS DONE. And the teacher meant that.

Running the mile around this track meant running around it six times. We all lined up on the track, and he blew the whistle. I was off. The first half of the first lap wasn’t too bad. I had found a decent stride, the cramps in my legs hadn’t kicked in yet. Heck, I was even ahead of the three questionable weird kids! After the first lap I thought, “I got this.”

Then lap two happened. I am not sure if it was actual soreness or lack of confidence, but I just couldn’t run anymore. My lungs started to burn, snot was building up in my nose. I had a side rib cramp, and one of my calf muscles seized up. One by one, kids started running their third and fourth laps around me while I was pathetically limping along on my second one. Not wanting to feel like an even bigger nerd than I already felt, I mustered up enough energy to try and run and only ended up with bursts of hobbled walking. It just wasn’t going to happen. I couldn’t run anymore. I felt like I was going to cry, and tried to hold back tears, but the overwhelming ball in my throat wouldn’t let me and I began to sob while I walked around the track.

Slowly the herd of sixth grade bodies thinned out, and they were all sitting in the middle of the football field waiting for me to finish; I was the last one to complete the mile. I could see kids snickering and jeering as I tried to run my final lap. Even the teacher was waiting impatiently and would look at his watch while holding the timer. “Come on Ms. Lange”” Hurry it up, these kids need to get to lunch.”

Not only was I the last kid to run the mile, I was keeping everyone back from lunch (The one thing every middle schooler waits for all day). Running not only humiliated me by failing to make me look cool, I was now responsible for cutting everyone’s lunch short. After this event, I sat alone in the cafeteria for at least a month.

Finally, I crossed the finish line and everyone got up to go to the locker rooms. I purposefully stayed behind, because I didn’t want to see their faces, and didn’t want them to see mine. Running ruined my life.

From that day forward I have since had a love/hate relationship with running. I was able to recoup emotionally on some level, and when the fitness test happened again, I wasn’t necessarily the last person, but have never been the first. Running became this thing that I was suddenly afraid of. Every time the teacher announced “Fitness Day,” I would hope that I would spontaneously combust so I wouldn’t have to participate. I still feel that way. When my husband suggested a few years ago that we try training for a 5K I found every reason not to, and almost started weeping at the thought of anyone seeing me run. We did the program, I gave it what I could. We finished the program, but never did our 5K.

But now, I have my own son, and he needs to know his mom is not afraid anymore. I never want Idan to experience or feel the way I felt when that happened to me. I know we cannot prevent these moments, but I hope I can show him he can recover. I refuse to be that girl who sobs on the last lap and wants to die inside from humiliation.

I have started training for a 5K again, and this time I am going to do it. I want to experience the extra air in my lungs and feel elated again. I want to see what my body is capable of, and not be afraid of getting outside my comfort zone. I want to tell that 6th grade girl that it is ok to be last, because you know what? You finished.

And that is what I intend to do. Finish.

I don’t need to be first, and if I am last that is okay. At least I can say I did it, and I am not afraid anymore. So, to complete this goal, my husband and I are participating in the “Devil Dash” 5k, mud-run and obstacle course in September (We Humphreys like to go big or go home!). For the first time in a long time, I am looking forward to something that would normally cause me stress and potential humiliation. I am a little intimidated by the obstacle part, but I have my husband to help me push my overdeveloped bottom over the wood and rope walls.

I promise to blog all about it.

Thanks for reading one of my many memories to grace the social media world. Maybe this will inspire some people to counsel with their inner 6th grader and let them know that they survived and really, everything is okay!

I have heard it since my childhood, that being a mother is the hardest job on the planet. I thought to myself, “What, really?! How can being a MOM and being home all day be that hard?!” Now, after my first week and a half home, I couldn’t agree more.

I remember watching Oprah in college, and she did this whole special dedicated to mothers, calling it the most important and least recognized job on the planet. She became very emotional and started crying. They panned to all the people in the audience, mostly women, who were dabbing their eyes with tissues, stretching out their mouths in the funny frown shape as they smeared their mascara down their cheeks. I am an empathetic person, and will cry with most people, but I never fully made the connection until now.

It is all true. Being a mom is the hardest, most rewarding, and least recognized job on the planet.

Last week my husband officially started back at school after a long and glorious summer. It honestly felt like I was starting my new “job” as well, and I couldn’t help but still have a bit of those new job rookie nerves. Idan is over nine months old, but this is the first time in our lives together that we are with each other for eight (plus) hours a day without any help, assistance, nearby guidance or even friendship. Nope, I am 100% on my own.

When I first had Idan, I was allotted eight weeks maternity leave before having to return full time to work. That time was such a blur that I really only remember fragments of it. I do have picture documentation of me however with my greasy, pulled up hair, mismatched PJ set, and swollen, puffy eyes from crying and lack of sleep. All I remember of that time was it was cold, I was sore from recovery, and I had a small bout of the baby blues. I was only home with Idan for a few weeks before the “hubs” had Christmas break, and then took over baby duties for two months while I went back to work.

However, life is different now that I am staying home with him full time. I no longer have pulled up greasy hair (well pulled up, but hopefully not greasy) My eyes are no longer puffy and swollen, in fact they have a bit of spark in them that was gone for a long time. I finally found the matching set to my PJs and have since organized my dresser.

Things are different than they were on maternity leave. There isn’t that impending doom of sadness lurking around the corner knowing that I have to leave my small child in the hands of someone else (Good hands, might I add, but still not mine nonetheless). I don’t have to rush every moment with him afraid that someone else will get to see it and not me. I am extremely blessed and fortunate that I am able to stay home and be the one to raise my son.

So that was the sunshine and rainbow part of the blog, now I want to briefly talk about the nitty gritty of what the first week was like. And like I said previously, being a full time stay at home mom is HARD!

I want to recap on a few events that have taken place:

Mommy and Idan’s adventure to the post office ended with pureed raisin, oatmeal and prune vomit down my shirt, in my hair, and on the book of stamps that I just bought (The nice lady behind me opened the door for me on the way out).

Idan decided that he now has a 15 minute window for each activity that he is engaged in before he screams like a holy terror (which makes any type of cleaning or cooking very challenging).

He acquired his second cold to date and three teeth coming in at the same time. Yes people, three teeth.

I have made 3 1/2 home cooked meals, and am pretty proud of how they turned out.

I did allot myself a “break” when he was napping and drank some coffee and watched my guilty pleasures that were recorded on the DVR. I have successfully followed my cleaning schedule for the first week, and I must say my house is cleaner now than it has been before. I know, I know, just wait till he is old enough to destroy the house, but I am enjoying it while it lasts.

I have even managed to fit in a trip to Babies R Us, Target and Walmart (while having nice hair and makeup might I add), re-organized my kitchen (mainly throwing away steel cut oats that had meal worms in them! EEK!), and managed to squeeze in exercise! Wheew!

I know that every week like this won’t be as eventful. I may even have a week of just being in my PJs and eating take-out. But, I am proud that I have started some semblance of a schedule. As a former Special Education teacher, being structured was extremely important for both the kids and myself, and I find that I am craving some of that structure at home. I have to say that even though being home is hard in many ways (mainly I am a bit lonely from lack of adult conversation and interaction), and being “on” ALL DAY, I do find that having a coffee break whenever I want it is an amazing perk! I might even bake some muffins to add to that coffee this week.

I want to wrap up this blog post by saying a special thanks to my mom who made it look so easy. She was always cooking, cleaning, helping my dad run a business, and still had time to always be kind to my sister and I, and hardly ever lost her patience! I am definitely taking a few tips from her while I am home, and a few recipes for that matter. Because it is true, nobody can do it like a mom can!

Until next time.

A few highlights!

Idan is on the VERGE of crawling. He does this scoot, crawl, roll combo thing, but he is moving!

My little babe is not so little anymore, weighing in at over nineteen pounds at his last doctor’s appointment, and no longer has his gummy smile. Two lower teeth and the two top ones poking through. *sigh* I am about to have a toddler

I want to make a public service announcement for all women, and men out there for that matter. Something happened – again – to me today, painfully, for the umpteenth time, and by writing this, maybe, just maybe, I can stop someone from being stupid. Yes, I used the word stupid. If you are offended by that word, you may not want to proceed any further, because today’s blog post is a rant. I was going to write a cheery blog post about a few firsts that the Humphrey family is experiencing with Idan. I was going to talk about his first tooth, our first vacation, my first night away from him, but alas, no. I will have to blog about that some other time. This occurrence today has preoccupied my usual chipper Pollyanna sunshine attitude into “that” person who is a little uncomfortable to be around. Let me proceed:

I understand a lot of things about post pregnancy. Heck, I even wrote a blog post about how incredibly difficult it feels to get your body back after having a baby. It seems like I am in a constant race chasing after my “old self,” but am far fatter, on a track that is uphill while wearing not so cute running clothes. I have gabbed to several women about how it feels like my body was pushed inside out, and then back in again, and the new body parts arranged by Picasso. My logical self knows that all of this is part of the process. But then why does it still hurt so badly when someone asks you the three dreaded words:

“ARE YOU PREGNANT?!”

These three words come in many different forms and varieties. “Having a baby,?” or “Are you expecting?” or “Another one huh?” (with a belly pat might I add)

This list goes on and on, but today for some reason it really hurt my feelings.

I know of three exact occasions that someone has said this to me, and each time, it affected me differently. I know that when that stupid person asks, they are not trying to be mean. In fact, they smile and get a glint of excitement when asking you a question that is incredibly private and personal. Most of the time they are strangers, and on a few occasions maybe a co-worker. But that doesn’t matter, because in the end I want to say that asking someone if they are pregnant is straight up rude. Even if the woman is carrying a 20 pound bowling ball, wearing a shirt that say’s EATING FOR THREE, and is waddling around eating ice cream covered in pickles, you STILL DON’T ASK.

What if that woman was suffering from infertility and you just asked her the one thing that could cause her to go into an emotional coma for a week? Not only did you bring up the dreaded pregnancy word, now she feels like she is fat too. Great, FAT and INFERTILE.

What if that woman just adopted that baby? Because of the awkwardness of the question, she may be forced to reveal private information about her experience which may be painful.

What if the woman is just overweight and is feeling insecure about herself, and you just made it worse and confirmed what she has been thinking all along: that she is fat and people really DO NOTICE. That is something that can ruin a vacation, a day at work, a moment, or a lifetime.

What if a woman just had a miscarriage? Or lost her baby? After my first miscarriage, a colleague of mine patted my belly and asked me if God had blessed me with another one to replace the one I just lost. I ugly-cried in the car and felt like a failure.

Because even if someone tells you a thousand wonderful things a day, you will remember the one that is the sharpest and most cutting, because it leaves the deepest impression and spreads to the darkest places within ourselves.

Why am I ranting so much about this right now? Because for the third time since Idan was born, I have been asked if I am expecting again. It was a nurse at Idan’s 9 month doctor’s appointment today. That question had absolutely no medical relevance to my son, it was just plain ol’ stupid commentary. As she was asking about his health, she glanced down at my midsection, smiled, and said “oh, and another on the way?” I was so shocked that I didn’t know what to say except “Nope.” My husband was baffled and wasn’t sure he heard her right and mumbled something and just looked at me with terror, ‘cause he knew that he was now going to have to deal with my emotional rollercoaster for the next several hours. That and several hours of googling the newest diets, cleaning out our fridge and making him exercise with me the moment we got home.

It is so painful because the person who is asking doesn’t know what I went through to conceive Idan, or to keep him. They don’t know that I had a very painful C-section that took weeks to recover. They don’t know that I have had self-esteem issues with my weight since I was eight years old and saying something like this feeds that starved inner child who really does believe that she is fat. The nurse is just is making a blind assumption, and poor small talk.

Words are weapons, and I want to give some insight to people who may not know, but asking the question “Are you pregnant?” can cause a lot of emotional distress, and really make a person feel bad about themselves and the cards that they were dealt.

It’s a personal question that is up there with…

“What is your salary?” or “What’s your political affiliation?” or “Do you believe in abortion?”

To me, it’s just plain rude. Please don’t ask it, people.

Thank you all for reading my soap box about this. I understand you may be reading this with raised eyebrows and horror that I would use words like stupid, or go off on something that is seemingly silly. But this is something I really just wanted to get off my chest, because maybe it will enlighten people to be a little more cautious with what they say to strangers. Everyone has a story, and who knows what part you just added to theirs.